


Imperfection

by harcourt



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Getting Back Together, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:28:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: Jack likes Parse better when he's less good at hockey.Or, when Kent has a choppy season struggling to come back from injury, Jack unexpectedly gets back in touch.





	1. Chapter 1

Kent's been back for three games and three nice, solid wins that mean the Aces are happy enough to have him back that he's yet to pay for a drink, much less take his turn at picking up the tab or buying a round. It's a triumphant return until he steps off the ice after game four and a hot spike shoots its way up his leg, from his knee, up his thigh, almost to the hip. He freezes reflexively, but it's gone, and he only staggers a little when Jeff slings an arm around his shoulders and pretends to not realize that he's dragging Kent off balance.

Kent laughs, and elbows him off, too gingerly. Twitchy about his knee and not getting enough footing to get any force because of it. He more squirms free of Jeff than throws him off.

"Hey, hey," Jeff says, holding both hands up like he thinks it's something he's done. "I'm just playing. You okay?"

Kent subtly tests his knee, shifting his weight on and off it, bending the joint a little. It's fine. "Yeah," he says. "Sure. Doesn't mean I'm carrying you to the lockers."

Jeff grins and gives him a little shove. His knee takes it fine.

Game five is a loss, but it's close, and Kent's leg holds up perfectly. It's not till the next day that his knee feels hot and puffy. Nothing too bad. Nothing worse than ordinary strain and most likely Kent wouldn't have noticed it himself if he hadn't been paying more attention than normal. He doesn't even need to limp as he moves around his kitchen, fixing breakfast for Kit and himself. It's really just a minor discomfort. Probably more in his head than in his knee. He ices it anyway, and after a few minutes Kit comes to join him on the couch.

Game six goes terribly, but it's not his fault, just bad luck all around in the way that means everyone is surly and argumentative in the locker room after, slamming doors and snapping at each other. Kent pokes at his knee a bit, more questioningly than because anything feels wrong, but quits before anyone can notice and decide something _is_ wrong. 

The next day his knee is still fine, and he dances Kit around the kitchen a bit in celebration of his recovery, so it takes him by complete surprise when eight games into his return, he has to limp off the ice with a helping shoulder under his arm.

He was at the bottom of a pileup, so it's not some freak incident. Not like his leg just gave out on its own or anything, but he still chews his lip raw worrying about it while the team doctor arranges x-rays or whatever the hell they think his knee needs. "A guy landed on me," Kent explains, when he can't take her neutral expression anymore. "Two guys." Just because it's not a recurring injury doesn't mean he can't be hurt, though, or that it makes him any less injured if he is. Kent frowns thinking about it, then adds, in a softer voice than he'd meant to, "I just got back." 

"Maybe I'm just getting old," Kent tells Jeff, in a bar, and after he's limped off the ice two games in a row. Jeff laughs and thumps his shoulder like he thinks Kent is a riot, and Kent kind of loves him for it, but the truth is, he probably does have to watch his knee. Keep an eye on it and baby it and not do anything reckless and stupid. Like play hockey on it. 

Kent laughs, not as genuinely as Jeff had, and clinks bottles with him, turning to watch the others celebrate their win, the bar a hard line against his back. He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning against it. Carl's telling some too-loud story from by the pool tables, incoherent chucklehead lies, the way he does when he's had one too many. 

"Beats the alternative," Jeff says, when he notices Kent sigh and slouch. "Happens to the best of us." He gestures with his bottle. "That's all I got. I might be able to come up with something about wiser and smarter, but I'll need time to work on it."

"I'm gonna head out," Kent says, and hops off his stool. "Make sure the boys don't wrap themselves around a lamp post on their way home."

Jeff sketches a salute, and says, "Take it easy, Captain."

The next time someone hurts their knee, it's someone else, but against Kent's head. He's not even sure how it happens, and even on replay he can't make heads or tails out of it, but that could be because his vision is swimming. At least partially because of that, anyway. It's also partly because the physics of the crash make no sense. 

"I see what you mean," he tells Jeff, sitting in the locker room after and still only half dressed, having made it into his jeans and one sock before running out of steam. "About the alternatives," but Jeff doesn't remember the conversation or know what he's talking about anymore.

"I can come home with you and wake you up every ten minutes," he offers, kidding. "Here, put a shirt on."

Kent takes it and drags it on, and lets Jeff hand him his hoodie as well. "You can come and help feed my cat," Kent tells him, fighting the zipper. 

Jeff swears at him, but he does it. He also fixes them both human dinners, makes sure Kent's comfortable on the couch, then raids his liquor. It's a fair trade, so Kent doesn't mention it, except a little bit to Kit when she jumps up to sniff at his face and get her ears scratched, but the hit he took must have been hard enough to worry Jeff, because he lets it go without even mild comment.

He must also be concussed enough to not be thinking straight, because when he wakes up in the morning, still on the couch, there's a text alert on his phone. From Jack. 

Kent squints at it. His head is throbbing a little, but it's nothing an aspirin won't take care of, and he's sure he was never out of it enough to do more than worry Jeff a little. Definitely not enough to head-trauma-dial anyone, let alone Jack Zimmerman. It's been a while since the last time Kent had tried to initiate contact, and that mostly out of stubborn habit. Maybe partly out of masochism. A little bit out of some stupid idea that Jack would tell him what the hell had happened between them so that maybe Kent could do something about it.

"Read it and tell me what it says, Kit," Kent says, holding his phone out to her. "If he's telling me to fuck off, delete it and keep it to yourself."

Kit makes an unhelpful _mmrph_ noise and rubs her cheek against the phone, and that at least makes Kent laugh in spite of the headache and the tight feeling in his chest. Somehow Jack responding to a message has become worse than Jack ignoring all of Kent's messages.

There's a noise from the guestroom, the sound of someone snort-snoring, which means Jeff must have stayed, either to keep an eye on him or because he'd been too lazy to take himself home once he was sure Kent was alright. Which means he won't have the privacy to have a breakdown over Jack's text message, and that's probably a good thing. That probably means he should read it right now, while he has the living room to himself but a check on how much of a meltdown he can have.

The phone unlocks with a digital click, muffled under the blanket. It's dumb to have ducked under the covers to read the text, but then, it had been dumb to keep sending Jack messages the whole time too.

_Good_ , Jack's message starts, and Kent has to scroll up to his own last message to get the context and realize it's a way belated answer to Kent asking how the NHL was treating Jack now that the shine was wearing off. _The guys are great. How's Vegas?_

Kent snorts. Then laughs a little. Then rubs at his face and frowns. One of those reactions has to be right, or at least close to it. His first reflex is to send back, _What the hell, Jack?_ but it's the first time in a long, _long_ time that Jack's initiated communication, and the first time that his response to _Kent_ initiating communication hasn't been radio silence or to throw him out on his ass.

Kent puts the phone away to think up a reply later, when he's more awake, and instead catches Kit so he can kiss the top of her head.

"Would you and the cat like to be alone?" Jeff asks, shuffling in wearing boxers and a t-shirt. Kent lets Kit escape.

"Would you like to put on some pants?"

"No," Jeff says seriously. "But I have no choice and neither do you, so unless your brain is still scrambled, get moving or we're gonna be late."

"Ugh. Five more minutes," Kent whines, but he stretches and gets up to make breakfast.

By the time he gets on the ice, his head is fine, and his knee holds up all through practice, so the only thing really distracting him is Jack's message on his phone, in his bag in the locker room.

"How's Vegas," Kent grumbles to himself, waiting his turn between drills. "How's Vegas."

There's enough going on that no one really hears him, even though Scraps does tilt his head in Kent's direction a bit, until Kent shakes his head to indicate he hadn't said anything. "Vegas is goddamn fine," he tells his phone, when he has it alone again, in his car outside the rink "Thanks for asking." He doesn't type anything for a long time, until Jeff comes over to knock on his window and ask if he's okay. Kent holds up his phone and points at it, like he's busy making a call, then changes the gesture into a thumbs up to show that he's fine.

Once Jeff's gone, he takes a breath and quickly writes and sends, _Hey_ , like an idiot, then starts the car and drives around until he can't pretend that he isn't just worrying about whether Jack will answer, and about having sent a message that has nothing in it to send an answer _to_.

Jack responds anyway, even if it takes him a day and a half and a bad Aces game. _You could have made that shot_ , he says. Kent rolls his eyes.

_Happens to the best of us_ , he writes back, and gets silence in response. Jack doesn't answer again until Kent lands on his face during a game and slides into the goal in a crash that's half comedic, half spectacular disaster.

_Are you alright?_ Jack sends.

_Perfect_ , Kent tells him, even though he's at home with his leg up while the guys are out drinking their sorrow. Which is mostly on Kent's head tonight. He should be there to pick up the tab, at least, which is another strike against him tonight.

_I saw the game._

"Rub it in why don't you," Kent says out loud, but types, _I take it you're impressed? Is this a fan message?_

Jack sends back a flat mouthed smiley. Kent grins. Thinks about writing, _I'll send you an autograph_ , but he's probably pushed that joke as far as it will go, and he doesn't want to force anything and come off like a jerk. Or jinx whatever it is that's going on with Jack. _Gonna crash_ , he sends instead, even though he's going to be sulking at the TV for at least another hour. _Talk to you tomorrow?_

_Goodnight_ , Jack writes. Kent doesn't grin at it, exactly, but his smile is still probably more than the message deserves.

"Goodnight," he says out loud, even though what he sends is a thumbs up and then a spade. Then he drops the phone onto the couch next to him so he can grab Kit as she's passing by, and tell her, seriously, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Kit Purrson." 

Kit meows in protest and Kent laughs and lets her go.

\-----

"You look cheerful for a man on a losing streak," Jeff grouches, when Kent shows up for practice the next day.

"It's not a _streak_ ," Kent says. "And I'm trying to bring positive energy to our game, so do you mind?"

It's _not_ a streak. Their game is uneven, and _Kent's_ performance has definitely been uneven since he's been back, but they're not losing every game. They're not going out on the ice with a curse hanging over their heads, just a bit of weight on their shoulders if the last game hadn't gone too well, and that's not great, but it doesn't make them a losing team either. 

Kent socks Jeff in the arm for daring to think it, then skates away before he can retaliate, backwards in case Jeff says or does anything that needs a rude gesture in response.

"You're supposed to be taking it easy today, old man," Jeff shouts at him. Kent laughs. His knee is a bit sore, but it's fine. As long as he doesn't go full throttle, it'll hold up for practice and the next day's game. 

"Smarter and wiser," Kent yells back, sliding smoothly into the pack doing warm-up laps and turning the right-way around. "Come on."

He's wrong about the game. The Aces win, but before the end, Kent's skating crooked and when the team is busy congratulating each other, he's not even on the ice. Scraps makes sure to come over and bop his head a bunch so he won't feel left out, but it's not the same.

"Positive energy, Captain," Jeff reminds him, leaning over the wall to offer a gloved fist for Kent to bump. "You played a good first period."

Kent pretends to punch him in the face, laughing when Jeff tousles back, then climbs over to push Kent off the bench, but mostly gently and careful of his knee, and for the benefit of anyone who might otherwise have noticed Kent's moping.

_You played a good first period_ , Jack offers, a couple hours later.

"Haha," Kent grumbles, but types, _Thanks_ , adds a frowny face, then deletes it and just sends the single word. Follows it with, _Not as good as yours_ , and lets Jack think about what period he means even though it's just bullshit. He hasn't caught up with Jack's games, and it's a bit weird that Jack seems to be making an effort to keep up with his, after all the time he'd spent making a point of not giving a shit about Kent or Kent's life.

_You're watching my games?_ Jack asks, as if he wasn't aware that Kent did, when he had the time. It's not like Kent never mentioned it, during the years Jack wasn't answering.

_You're watching mine._

It sounds snippy. Kent deletes it and sends, _Yes_ , instead, then adds, _I try to pencil you in_.

Jack sends a text heart. 

Kent sends the same thing back at him, but as a proper emoji.

_I do know how to send those_ , Jack says.

Kent sends him a spade. It's a good all-purpose response.

Jack sends a diamond, then a club, then a heart. 

_Well done, Zimmermann_ , Kent sends. _There's hope for you yet._ He makes sure to catch Jack's next game so he can send Jack comments on which period Jack played better, arguing against himself over the course of ten or so short messages.

_Call it a draw_ , he decides in the end. _You were great the whole game_.

Jack doesn't respond to it, but a few hours later he does tell Kent, _Good luck tomorrow_.

Kent does have good luck. He also manages to get through the game without getting banged around too much. He's fast and smooth and at the end he thumps the top of Jeff's helmet, patting him hard enough to make a point. "Better and smarter, Swoops," Kent tells him.

"I never said _better_."

_Great the whole game_ , Kent sends Jack, because he's pretty sure that Jack knows about his knee. If he's following Kent's games, then he's hearing the commentary about Kent's games and performance and he's got to know that things have been a bit up and down recently. It won't sound like Kent's a douchey winner. He adds a smiley just in case, then follows up with a question mark later, when Jack doesn't answer.

_Great the whole game_ , Jack confirms, and a few seconds later, like he's not sure of it, adds a spade. Kent sends the same emoji back with a bunch of exclamation marks after it. It's later enough that all the post game formalities have wrapped up and he's out grabbing dinner with Jeff and Scraps, but Kent is still giddy with celebratory feelings about his team.

He rethinks it when Jeff leans over the table to snatch his phone and says, "What are you smiling at on this thing, Parser?"

Kent doesn't make a grab for it, because he's sure that's what Jeff wants. "Fan mail," he says.

"Uh huh."

Jeff's decent enough that he hits the lock button instead of reading Kent's chats, but he does slip the phone into his own jacket like he's confiscating it from some ill mannered kid.

"Okay," Kent says. "I got the message. Give it back." He holds his hand out. Jeff puts a fork in it.

"But what if my 'fan' is tweeting me?" Scraps chirps, in a mock-Kent voice. He doesn't make air-quotes, but Kent hears it in his tone anyway.

"Those 'fans' who have Parser's personal number."

"I don't know about you, but I for one give my number out to everyone. On fliers."

"Aw," Kent snips. "Someone will bite someday, Scraps."

" _Now_ he wants to talk to us," Scraps says, directing it at Jeff.

"Come on, Scrappy. You can't expect Parser to notice the people sitting right in front of him when he's got a _fan_."

"It's like he's never had a fan before."

"Maybe they're few and far between."

Kent tries to scowl, but ends up laughing anyway. He retaliates by stealing pasta off Jeff's plate.

"What did this fan say?" Jeff asks, making only half an effort to block Kent's fork. Kent nabs some ravioli and shoves it in his mouth. "To distract you from our beautiful faces?"

"That we were great the whole game."

"Oh. In that case." Jeff gets Kent's phone out and hands it back. "Tell them I'd like some messages too."

Kent grabs it back, stealing a quick look at the screen to see if Jack's sent anything during those few minutes. There's no notification, but both Jeff and Scraps notice his glance down before he stuffs the phone away, because they share a look like they're preparing to give Kent more shit.

"What? Can't a guy make friends?" Kent demands, to cut them off before they can coordinate. It doesn't take. 

"I thought _we_ were friends," Jeff says, fake-hurt.

Kent's clearly painted a target on himself. He sighs, mostly in good natured resignation, but a little bit because Jack is a raw topic. Being teased about him, even unwittingly, feels like being poked in a bruise. Not seriously painful, but enough to be a tangible reminder. And one that Kent doesn't need, because he thinks about Jack and that Jack-size sore spot all the next day while his phone stays silent except for a couple times that Scraps sends him weird selfies.

"He's got a game," Kent tells Kit, when the third time he checks his phone it's Scraps again. It's not clear if he's sending his ugly mug to Kent on purpose or if something is going on with his phone. "He probably had morning skate, or had to go watch tape or something. We're busy on game day too, right, Purrson? And _you_ never call me at all." He turns the TV on and finds the pre-game discussion, then leaves it on to head to the kitchen, Kit mewing and twisting around his feet.

"Right. Now that I'm going near the can opener you want to make nice," he scolds, but feeds her some cold chicken from the fridge anyway. Just a couple bites to keep her from sticking her head into everything while Kent rummages.

His phone chimes again while Kent is sniffing the contents of a Tupperware box from way at the back. "If that's Scraps again, I'm going to send him a picture of your butt," he tells Kit, who's climbed half into his icebox anyway, but when he checks, it's just one of the guys, asking an actual, non-stupid question. Kent checks the TV while he types his response, but it's still on talking heads.

Then it goes to pre-game interviews, audio over B-roll, and there's Jack, with that serious look he gets before games, visible in gaps between the other players until the camera gets around to focusing on him. He's pissy, and that's so familiar that it makes Kent grin. Maybe someday things between them will be good enough again for Kent to chirp him about it.

Mashkov is looking like a wall. Kent boos dutifully, but goes to flop onto the couch, propping the heel of his recovering leg up on the armrest, and shoving a pillow under the knee. Not because it hurts, but just to make sure it stays not hurting.

Jack skates out onto the ice for warm-ups, and the camera switches to an overhead as sponsors are announced, logos centered over the rink. Kent hasn't thought about it in a while, the whole show of it. He picks up his phone to write something for Jack to read later, but can't come up with anything that's quite right. That'll cover the complicated feeling of _we made it_ but also all the things they gave up getting here.

_Lookin' good, Zimms_ , he writes, even though the puck has barely dropped and he's sure Jack will see the timestamp, _Great the whole game_.

He is. When the game ends, Kent adds, _Called it_.

_Kent_ is only great for two periods and a bit the next time the Aces are on. Again. And then his knee starts slowing him down. He knows Jeff can tell by the way he puts his hand on Kent's helmet and keeps it there, arm resting against Kent's back almost protectively as they sit on the bench. Like a shield, even though it's not going to do a thing once he's back in the game and everyone is gunning for him, sensing blood in the water.

Like they think Kent doesn't know how to get the puck to his teammates. Kent grins at the rest of his line as they switch back on and says, "Let's get 'em."

_Did you watch the game?_ Kent types later, but doesn't send. It would probably come off too pushy and being that way might drive Jack away again. He'd never liked Kent's attempts to close the gap between them. "Like you," Kent tells Kit, when he moves to pick her up and she slides easily away. Twisting over his arm like a slinky, then twitching her tail at him. "See if you're still too good for me when you want your litter scooped."

Kit ignores him and starts washing an ear, back turned reproachfully and the tip of her tail still flicking left and right. Kent deletes his message before he taps something by accident, and frowns at his phone screen, thinking. He puts in a spade and a question mark, then deletes that too. Maybe not hockey. He used to have a lot of things to say to Jack that weren't about hockey.

Or, not only about hockey, anyway.

Outside his apartment, the Vegas sky is ruddy with neon, bouncing back off the cloud cover. _What's up in Providence?_ he sends finally. It's real smooth.

Kent huffs and tosses his phone onto a counter so his hands can be free to scrub over his face, but snatches it up again when it buzzes. It's a picture of a city. Tidy and charming looking. Very not like Las Vegas. The picture is of a street, bald trees lit by a row of lamps, heavy clouds overhead and tinted orange, with bright edges catching the last of the sun.

_Did you take that?_ Kent asks, instead of sending Zimms a picture of his cat or the socks he's left in the middle of his floor, or something weird and trying to be funny like that.

_Yeah,_ Jack answers, with no elaboration. Kent vaguely remembers him saying something about photography during one of the arguments they'd had about how much they should be in each other's lives. He can't remember how they'd gotten on the topic. Maybe it hadn't even made sense at the time. Or maybe it had been part of an explanation about all the things in Jack's life that had nothing to do with Kent, and that were the reason why Jack's life didn't have any time or space in it for him anymore.

_That's cool,_ Kent sends. _My phone's just full of crap._

There's nothing for a bit. Maybe Jack's busy laughing.

_And selfies?_ he eventually sends back.

_You don't know how much I appreciate your not considering my selfies a part of the crap._

Kent takes a second to consider the message, then adds a heart onto the end of it to make sure Jack gets that he's kidding.

_Send me one_ , Jack writes.

"Uh," Kent says. He sends a winking cat emoji.

_Seriously, Kenny._

Kent sits down right where he is, the tile of his kitchen floor cold under his butt through the thin material of basketball shorts, and the edge of a cabinet door digging into his back just left of his spine. He chews on the inside of his cheek. _Let me find a good one._ He could take one now, but that feels too immediate, somehow. Too close. He thumbs over to his images and scrolls, looking for something where he's alone and looks decent, but is also funny. He ends up sending one taken outside a club, where he'd been trying to line his head up with a sign further down the street, to make the neon bunny ears coming off the top of it look like they're growing out of his head. He'd been half-drunk, and it shows in the kind of goofy expression on his face, the easy way he's laughing. Jack can take it any way he wants--Kent being cute, or Kent being stupid.

_BAM_ , he types, right after it loads into the chat window, to show that _Kent_ means for it to be read as a silly picture.

Jack chat-laughs, typing, _Hahaha_ instead of _lol_ , and that's either Jack being Jack, or Jack wanting to make sure that Kent wouldn't misread his tone. Either way, it's cute. Kent grins at it for way too long, and jumps when his phone buzzes then starts playing his ringtone.

It's Jeff. 

Kent scrubs a hand through his hair and picks up. Tries not to sound cranky when he asks, "'Sup, Swoops?"

"What do you mean, 'sup _me_ '?" Jeff demands. "Just 'cause you're getting creaky doesn't mean you have to start turning in early. We're in _Vegas_!"

They've been there a while. Kent doesn't bother making the argument. "So what are you thinking, then?" he asks. "A quiet dinner and some music?"

"Exactly that. I'm in your lobby. Buzz me up."

Kent gets up to do it, climbing stiffly to his feet and padding over to the door, where the intercom and control pad is. He pushes the button for a good three seconds, in case Jeff's slow on the uptake, then makes sure Kit isn't staking out the door so she can try to escape into the hall. He's gently herding her towards the bedroom, when Jeff comes in, saying, "Knock, knock, Parser. I brought you beer. Or, actually, someone brought _me_ beer, but it's awful, so it's yours now. Let's go out."

"I'm--"

"You're what? You're not doing anything. We were great today, we should be out there--" Jeff points at the windows.

"Celebrating?"

"Or at the very least not moping."

"I'm not moping."

Jeff doesn't take no for an answer, so Kent grumbles that it's late, but gets dressed and lets himself be dragged to a bar with some of the guys, then to a club, then to an extra-extra late dinner, even though they have practice the next day. They take a picture outside the restaurant, silly and climbing over each other, trying to get everyone into the frame. Kent saves it when it goes out on the group chat, while he's walking vaguely car-wards with Jeff, taking washed out, disappointing pictures of the street and sky. Not capturing that city glow in the slightest.

The auto-adjust does a better job on Jeff's face, when Kent takes a couple test-shots of him mugging ridiculously into the Kent's camera. He doesn't say anything when Kent goes back to taking environment shots, except to give Kent a weird sideways look.

"If something's wrong," he says, when they get to where they're parked, leaning over the still locked car, arms on its roof, "you tell us, Parse." It's not an offer or a request.

"Nothing's wrong." He tries the door. "Swoops."

Jeff doesn't unlock it. "Your knee will be fine." His keyring beeps. The locks pop, just as Kent's tugging on the handle again, so the door opens suddenly, hitting him in the leg. Jeff laughs. "Get in, Captain."

"It's not--" Kent starts, then shuts up and gets in. "Sure. Better and faster, right?"

"I never said either of those." He starts the engine. "We did have a good game."

"Yeah."

"You're still our captain."

"Yup."

"We killed it today."

"I know. I was there."

Jeff doesn't answer other than to back out of the parking space too fast, and turn into the street, tires squealing as he makes the turn, then slows to drive more sanely. Kent pretends to not have noticed the maneuver. If Jeff's trying to psych him out, it'll take more than mildly reckless driving to do it.

"You good?" Jeff asks, when they get to Kent's place. "Or do you need me to come up and drink terrible beer with you?"

Kent laughs. "We have _practice_. Later today, in fact."

"So--yes or no?"

"No. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you on the ice."

"Parser--"

"Nothing's wrong. We're--I'm working on it."

Jeff huffs in annoyance and waves him out of the car. Clearly not buying a word of it. Kent doesn't get out for another second, trying to think of something he can say to reassure Jeff, then just repeats, "Nothing's wrong, Swoops."

"Okay. Fine. But--" He points two fingers at his eyes, then turns them towards Kent. "Now get out of my car, Parser."

Kent hesitates a bit longer, not sure what it is he's doing that's making Jeff worry, and not sure what he can say to make him _not_ worry, but he's coming up with too many blanks to get anywhere and finally just punches Jeff's shoulder awkwardly and gets out. When he gets upstairs, Kit sneaks past him into the hall and Kent has to chase her down all the way to the elevators.

After practice, Kent sends Jack a couple of his bad Vegas photos and a bunch of question marks.

Jack sends, _Sure, if you take them with your phone._

_Next time we've got a game near each other, maybe you can give me tips_ , Kent writes, then rolls his eyes at himself and deletes. _Maybe if I change some settings_ , he sends instead.

_Sure_ , Jack sends back. _Maybe_. Kent can't tell if he's annoyed or not. If he knows Kent's just playing and not actually making light of Jack's new artistic pursuits.

_You have practice?_ Kent asks, taking it back to safe ground. To the thing they'd always had between them.

_Yeah_. There's nothing else. Just that.

"Cool," Kent says out loud, but doesn't write it, because it's frustrating and sad to not have anything to say to Jack about hockey, of all things. For Jack to not be giving him anything to work with. They'd talked hockey for years, when Kent was sleeping on Jack's floor and then in his bed. They'd talked hockey all the way up to the day that Jack had stopped talking to him altogether, and probably even _on_ that day. 

_Catch you later then_ , Kent writes, even though it's unlikely that Jack is heading out right that second. Then he decides it's too abrupt and tries to come up with something to soften it, eventually adding a pizza emoji because it's silly, and because Jack might be sick of the spades, and could also choose to interpret it as Kent going for lunch.

"Versatile," he comments to Kit, who isn't paying any attention to him anyway. 

Jack doesn't respond. After a few hours, Kent sends him another bad scenery photo, just to keep the channels open, and the exchange becomes just that for a few days, Jack sending him pictures of Providence, and Kent sending back much more random and less artistic pictures of Vegas. No people, no context, like they're the only ones who exist in their world.

Kent's busy looking at a picture of a park, shot from down a nearby street, so that it's a glimpse of open space, framed by buildings and parked cars, a square of green boxed in by greys--overcast sky, white houses, dark street--when Jeff steals his phone out of his hand. When Kent doesn't jump after it, he takes it as permission to steal a peek at the screen.

"What is this?" He asks. "Why is it so depressing?"

Kent holds his hand out, waiting for the phone to be returned to it. "I think it's supposed to be peaceful. I'm not sure. I'm trying to decide."

"And here I thought you were busy looking at cat videos. Where is this? New York?"

He could lie and say yes. Jeff would think a family member had sent it, he knows Kent's from there.

"Providence," Kent says, then adds, "Maybe Samwell. From the summer"

Jeff looks over the phone at him. 

"Zimmermann's into photography," Kent keeps going, because he can't seem to stop talking. "We were friends in--"

"Juniors. Yeah." Jeff had been there when Kent had first come to Vegas. The story's not new to him. He'd found Kent frantically trying to call Canada enough times to be sympathetic as Kent's panicked phone calls had slowly cooled to dogged resignation, to intermittent attacks of hopeful stupidity. "What's he want?"

He's lowered the phone enough that Kent can steal it back, locking the screen before he tucks it into his pocket. "Nothing. It's just--hockey."

"Hockey," Jeff echoes.

"I lived at his house for a long time," Kent says.

"Hey, you don't have to explain to me, Parser. I played as a kid, too." He doesn't look like he understands, though. Or maybe, like he thinks he does, but doesn't like his conclusions. He drops into a seat across from Kent, chair legs squeaking as they push across the floor. "Wanna get lunch?"

Kent shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. "I have to see the trainers." He pulls his phone back out to check the time. "In about an hour."

"Oh," Jeff says, and bounces his knee for a few seconds. Then he offers, "After, then? Or I could get something and bring it back?"


	2. Chapter 2

_They're not happy with my knee_ , Kent sends to Jack, without thinking, breaking the wordless image back-and-forth. The team has enough on their plate without worrying about Kent's recovery on top of it, and after two days of scheduling PT and listening to unconvincing reassurances, Kent's sense of caution is just gone.

Jack answers almost right away, for Jack. Sending a single question mark and then, after three whole minutes, a frowning emoji.

"Yeah. Thanks, Jack," Kent says to his phone, flopped backwards across his couch, with his good leg hooked over the armrest, and the heel of the other propped against it, putting his knee into a bend that feels a little tight after all the poking and testing, but not painful. After another ten minutes, Jack finally sends,

_Are they taking you back off?_

They aren't. Kent could take a bad hit, but that's true any time, so for now it's reduced time, and tactical deployment. Holding him back for tight spots and for when the team needs a push. 

_That's good, right?_ Jack sends. _Do what they say and you'll be fine._

Kent does, following direction as obediently as a scared rookie, but the Aces still lose the first game that he barely plays in, and then the trainers still insist on looking at his knee, like he might have strained it sitting on his ass. He spends the session looking at Jack's photo with the little square of park. 

_Is this supposed to be sad or peaceful?_ He asks, while his knee is being iced, and sends the photo back to Jack to clarify. _Me and Swoops had a difference of opinion_.

Jack doesn't answer until after one of the trainers is busy feeling around the bones of Kent's knee again. _You showed it to people?_

Kent hadn't thought it would matter. Not like someone seeing their text messages would, even though those are pretty ordinary too, really. _Accident_ , Kent types. _Sorry._

_It's okay_ , Jack responds. Somehow, Kent reads it in the neutral, unconvinced tone Jack used to have in the Q, whenever Kent had tried to persuade him to go someplace or do something.

_Really, Jack_ , Kent sends again. He can't have this conversation here, with a trainer moving his leg and giving him instructions and asking "Does this hurt?" when Kent winces at his phone.

"No," Kent says quickly. "It's--um." He waves his phone. "Mean tweets."

That gets him a laugh, and a, "Don't read those, Parser. Those are just people who think they know hockey."

"What if they're making fun of my clothes?"

"Then I might be with them."

Kent smiles. He sends Jack, _I didn't know it was personal_. He hadn't thought they were at the stage of sharing personal things yet, pictures of Kit aside. Knowing Jack, though, he should probably have guessed it was _all_ personal, especially everything about Samwell, which he'd kept private from Kent all those years. _I'll be more careful._

He sounds so pathetic. Kent adds a cat sticker with big eyes to soften it. Make it a little funny. Hopefully Jack won't misunderstand and think he's not serious about any of it.

_It's fine,_ Jack sends. _It's not a big deal. I was just surprised._ And then, _Why depressing?_

_I don't know, Zimms. I don't know art._

Jack doesn't answer, and when he sends Kent another message, he's changed the subject, asking about Kent's next game and some apartment he's thinking about moving to. That seems like things are fine. Like Jack really doesn't mind. Kent used to be able to tell when Jack was in a mood and trying to cover it up.

Or, Kent used to _think_ he was able to, because he'd missed it when it had mattered most.

_Sorry_ , he types, and accidentally sends.

_Is this still about the photo?_ Jack asks. _It's really fine, Parse._

Kent sends him a picture of Kit peering out of his laundry hamper. _Put it on your Instagram, we'll be even._

He's not sure why, but he reads laughter in Jack's silence, so when the team decides to send him to a specialist a bit further Jack's way, Kent asks, _Maybe I can come see you after?_ and then tries not to check his phone every ten seconds until Jack sends,

_Flight? I'll pick you up at the airport._

\-----

Kent packs and delivers Kit to Jeff to look after, then flies out to have his knee prodded and have all the tests he's had done re-tested over the course of two days, then heads to Providence while he waits for results and for the doctor's office to talk to Vegas and then for everyone to get back to him. They've put his knee in a brace as a precaution, even though Kent had had the all-clear to play, so he looks extra beaten up when he walks out into the airport waiting area.

Jack's there, as promised, wearing a coat and a hat with a pompom on top and earflaps. Kent doesn't laugh. It's cold in Providence and he's shaking a little because he hadn't wanted to cart around a heavy winter coat just to run from door to car to door.

"Hey, Jack." Kent waves a little, like an idiot, stopped a few feet from Jack with his bag over his shoulder.

"Parse," Jack says.

"It's fucking cold out here, huh?"

"It's winter."

Kent laughs. He's shivering pretty hard, so it comes out shaky. 

"You don't even have a hat," Jack says, and takes his off to pull over Kent's ears. His smile is warm. Kent shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and lets his teeth chatter, hunching a little to try to preserve warmth. Just standing there until Jack gives his shoulder a light pat. "Come on, before someone starts taking pictures."

"Shit, yeah. I wouldn't want a record of me in this stupid hat."

Jack smiles. "My mother sent it."

Oh. "How is she?"

Jack hums in response. A light sound that means _fine_. They make small talk all the way to Jack's car, Jack sounding relaxed and calm and Kent's glad of the cold because it covers the uncertain tremor that leaks into his voice.

"I'll crank the heat," Jack says, as he starts his car. "It should get warm pretty quick. I wasn't waiting that long."

He's right. The vents blow cold, but quickly go to cool, then vaguely body heat, then hot. Kent presses his hands over them and sighs, turning his hands to direct the air towards his face.

"So I guess you don't miss Canada?" Jack teases.

Kent misses Canada and the way things were in Canada so much it kills him, all of the time. He gives Jack a sideways look and grins. "Right now I miss the desert."

Jack smiles back. "We'll grab some coffee. It's not the same, but it'll be hot." And then he waits, holding Kent's gaze, with his hand on the gear shift.

Kent looks away, fixing his gaze on his fingers where he still has them cupped over the vents. "Yeah. Alright. Thanks, Zimms."

There's not a lot Kent can do while he's under orders to lay off his knee, even after Jack loans him a more appropriate winter coat, so he mostly hangs around the condo while Jack goes to practice. It's a nice place. A lot like what Kent had imagined, when they'd been kids, when he'd pictured a future for them that extended beyond hockey. Something that wasn't about the NHL and what teams they might go to. Even knowing they'd be split up, Kent had somehow placed them together, sharing a house or having apartments close enough to visit. He hadn't been able to imagine, then, not having Jack. Now, it's hard to believe that he's sitting on Jack's couch, waiting for his phone to buzz and deliver--hopefully--good news.

By the time Jack comes home, it still hasn't.

"When are you supposed to hear?" Jack asks, when he finds Kent frowning at his phone. Somehow knowing that Kent's disgruntled by the lack of news and not from having received some.

"I don't know. How long does it take to read an x-ray anyway?" Plus other tests, plus the discussing with Vegas. "I just hope I still have a season by the time they get back to me."

Jack frowns, his eyes on Kent's knee as he pulls his scarf off and hangs his coat. He's wearing a Falconers sweater under it, with the collar and tails of a proper shirt poking out of the collar and hem. 

"What?" Kent asks.

There's pictures on the wall behind Jack. His college team and a little Samwell pennant in one frame. Alicia and Bob and Jack in front of their house in another. A black and white shot of a couch standing askew in the middle of a cluttered living room. Nothing from Rimouski.

"Nothing, just--" Jack frowns, then shakes his head and smiles. "I'm sure you'll have a season. They're just being careful." It's an obvious redirection. Kent keeps looking at him, waiting for more, and after a minute or so Jack rubs the back of his neck and says, "It's been a while, huh?"

Kent wants to ask _why_. Why it had been so long and why Jack's talking to him again now, but Jack's never been great about Kent asking questions like that, so he settles on, "Yeah," then looks down, running his thumbnail around the edge of his phone's screen, pretending to scrape crud out of the groove. The last time he and Jack had been alone in a room like this it had been at Jack's parents' house, getting ready for the draft. They'd talked about Vegas, Kent thinks, not just the hockey, but the city, and about how whichever of them went first would invite the other, first chance, and show them a good time.

"Next time, you come out and see me," Kent says, because he's an idiot. He's the one who'd asked to visit Jack. "I mean, if you want. I'm not trying to--get on your case or anything."

Jack's still just standing there.

"Thanks for having me, man," Kent adds, before the silence can get awkward. "If you'd said no, I'd just be hanging out in some hotel room while I wait for sentencing."

That breaks whatever Jack's mood is, and his eyes scrunch into that _almost_ Jack-laugh Kent remembers. "You'll be fine," he says, and then, more hesitantly, "It's nice seeing you, Kent."

"It's nice to see you," Kent says, then takes the chance to add, "I missed you," saying it carefully. Jack heaves a sigh.

"Don't say that, Kenny."

"Right. Sorry. I didn't mean--"

"No. It's alright. Just--don't say that."

Kent tries to untangle that, but can't. "Okay," he agrees. "Sorry."

"I'm making lunch," Jack says, breezing right by it. "You want anything?"

"Let's go out. You drive, my treat?"

Jack looks down at himself.

"Unless you don't want to deal with putting your scarf back on, in which case, we can eat here and I can help you make lunch."

That gets a laugh, small but genuine. Jack has more angles in his face than when they'd been in the Q. He's taller and longer. Wider in the shoulders. Kent's never really had the time to appreciate how much he's changed, in the short spurts of time they'd spent together since, the details lost in a blur of high emotion. "Yeah, Parse," Jack is saying, eyes very blue and mouth upturned. "It's too much work with the scarf. Maybe we can go for dinner?"

\-----

"They played me too soon," Kent says, the next morning when Jack comes in from checking his mail, dutiful the way he'd been in Canada. Coffee, mail, breakfast, always the same order, even though most of what he gets now is junk that goes straight into his recycling bin. "We've been having a rough season, so we rushed, I guess." He frowns.

Jack looks at him. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah." Kent holds his phone up. "They called this morning to let me know. PT schedule, don't strain the knee, reassess. Probably not surgery, but my season is fucked. I guess I kind of knew it would be."

"As long as you get better."

Kent scowls at his phone. "Yeah." He flips to the camera app and tracks Jack with it as he moves around, but doesn't take the picture. If he's not playing, he could hang out in Providence, work on his knee here, but whatever he's got going with Jack won't take that kind of sustained proximity. Plus Jack's still busy with his season. He's probably got a roadie soon.

"Are you filming?" Jack asks, frowning at him. Kent lowers his phone and starts typing an update to Swoops.

"No."

"Are you supposed to not skate at all?"

Kent shrugs. "They said I could try some light workout." But with the brace on and to stop if it hurts at all. "Why?"

"One of the guys has a pond. It's pretty much frozen over this time of year."

Kent looks up from his phone and grins. "You want to take me on a skate date?"

For a second he thinks he's crossed a line and that Jack will shut down, but then he quirks a smile and says. "If I can find a pair of skates that will fit you."

Kent snorts, and looks back down long enough to send his message to Jeff, then back at Jack. "You're hilarious," he says. "You know I can _buy_ a pair of skates, right?" 

Jack laughs. It's bright and genuine and then he nods at Kent's knee. "Maybe give it a couple more days." 

It's an invitation to stay. Kent's pretty sure. "Yeah?"

"Unless you think it's okay," Jack misunderstands, frowning a little. "I guess you could call and ask someone."

"No. I mean, it's probably fine, but--" Kent sits up and swings around to put his good foot on the floor, leaving the other stretched out on Jack's couch. "Are you sure--? Don't you have hockey?"

Jack looks at him like it's the stupidest question he's ever been asked. It's definitely not the smartest one Kent's ever come up with. "You have a bunch of home games or something?" he adds.

"Oh. Yeah. I've got about a week."

Kent grins. That's more than enough time to get some pond skating in. Like when they'd been kids, out behind the Zimmermann house, freezing their asses off until it was too dark to see what they were doing, then stumbling back to retreat up to Jack's room and warm up against each other's skin.

"Don't race me though," Kent says. "I'm pretty sure they told me no racing."

"Exactly what a slowpoke would say." Jack's smiling at him. Maybe thinking about that pond too. Definitely thinking about Kent's ribbing and trash talk.

"Yeah, okay. Dish served cold, huh, Zimms?" Kent hauls himself up to head for the kitchen and start getting breakfast on, so he'll have something to focus on other than Jack's face and all the thoughts that he's ever had about Jack that he's apparently re-having all at once now. Jack catches him around the waist as he passes, hooking him with one arm and sort of steering him so that he ends up turned towards Jack.

Kent's pretty sure he kisses first. Their faces are close. It might be reflex. Or muscle memory. But Jack's arm slides up his back so he can pull Kent closer, his hand between Kent's shoulder blades, fingers spread wide. It's different than when they'd been in the Q. Different than when Jack was at Samwell. Kent can't exactly say why. Maybe it's just that they're older. Smarter and wiser.

Or Jeff's and wrong and they've just gotten dumber. That's a definite possibility.

Kent's okay with it.

His hands find their way up under Jack's shirt. Just playing at the edge of the hem as he takes Jack by the hips. He can feel skin under his index finger and thumb. Middle finger. Ring finger. And then both his palms are pressed against Jack's sides and sliding up around his back, under his shirt, holding on while Jack's other hand ends up in his hair, cupping the back of his head to deepen the kiss.

Jack presses into him, with just enough weight that Kent leans in to counter it, like he might have to hold Jack up, shifting his weight to his good leg. Jack feels him do it and pulls back, but doesn't let go. "Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay." Kent grins at him and doesn't let go either. "You?" Jack's probably going to be late for practice if they don't stop what they're doing and hurry up with breakfast.

"I'm fine," Jack says. He looks goofy, smiling down with a lopsided expression that makes everything weird about his face look even weirder. Jack's grown up hot, but somehow the awkward kid Kent had first met in juniors always shows through. It's something about his facial expressions. Maybe the way his eyes look a little sleepy when he's not playing hockey and doesn't have that intense look on. "What?" Jack asks.

"Nothing," Kent says. "You're going to be late."

"Right. Yeah." Jack lets go slowly, almost reluctant, and Kent gives him a small push to hurry him up.

"Move, Zimms. I'll get breakfast. What do you want? Eggs okay?"

Kent doesn't wait for an answer, because he's pretty sure Jack still eats the same stuff he used to. He's never been a huge fan of changing things up. Jack hangs out for another minute watching him get eggs and implements out before he goes to get his hockey shit together. By the time he gets back, Kent's thrown together a couple of plates that even look pretty presentable, and set them out on Jack's kitchen table with a couple mugs of coffee, even though back in Vegas he'd probably have eaten standing and maybe even straight from the pan with one foot out the door.

It might be overkill. Or he's just being a good houseguest. Or he's being an idiot thinking that Jack will even worry about what it is that Kent thinks he's doing, when all he's doing is fixing breakfast like he said he would.

Kent gestures at the table with a ridiculous little flourish. "I would have gone outside and picked a flower for the table, but it's, you know. An icy wasteland."

Jack laughs, but he's already short on time, so breakfast is mostly him shoveling eggs and reheated leftover potato into his mouth and not much talking. It's a lot like what Kent remembers, really, but also pretty different now that they're no longer on the same team and with Kent sitting around in his socks sipping coffee with no practice to be at.

It's been a long time since they've been together like this. Relaxed, with a promise of later. Every time since the draft had been short, tense, and desperate. Usually, they'd ended up in a fight, and if that didn't happen, it was only because something else cut them off before they could get there. The last time they'd had breakfast together was in Canada, at Jack's parents' house, before they were supposed to go to the draft together. It's possible that was the last time they'd had a _meal_ together.

"Jack--"

Jack pauses, mouth full of eggs, but now that Kent has his attention, he can't bring himself to voice any of his thoughts.

"You're going to show me how to use that camera, right?"

"Oh," Jack says, after chewing twice and swallowing. "Yeah. Sure. We can do that."

Later, when he gets back from practice, Jack gets his camera out and explains all the buttons and dials with way more depth than Kent will ever need. It's a film camera, which doesn't even surprise Kent, but the weight of it does. It's like cradling a brick in his hands. He's glad the neck strap is as wide as it is, because he's not sure he'd trust anything thinner.

"It's mostly the lens," Jack says, when Kent hefts it and gives him a questioning look. "Here, I'll show you how to load the film."

He takes it back, lifting the strap over Kent's head himself, fingers brushing the back of Kent's neck, and for a second they're so close they could kiss again, except the angle is never right for Kent to try. Jack doesn't even seem to be thinking it, distracted by the project of explaining depth of field, delicately turning the lens between his fingers as he talks, adjusting something.

"--was my mother's," he's saying, when Kent remembers to pay attention again. "I was taking a class, so she let me have it. I have a digital too, if you want instant results."

Kent does like instant results, but he goes along with Jack's preference for old timey shit and they go outside and take turns snapping shots, wandering a little while Jack points out the landmarks of his neighborhood. They're a lot more understated than the landmarks of Kent's neighborhood, in the city that might have been Jack's, where he plays with the team that might have been Jack's, if things had worked out differently.

"How will I know if any of these are good?" Kent asks, aiming the camera at Jack and pressing the button. The shutter opens and closes with a smooth click, a bit slow because the overcast Providence sky means Kent had to thumb the shutter dial all the way over to get the light meter to balance.

"That's going to be blurry," Jack says.

"Really? I have steady hands."

"We'll see. I'll try to borrow the darkroom the next time I see the guys." At his college he means. Providence and Samwell are close enough that he can go to their games, when he has time.

"Like with the red light and everything?" Kent asks.

"Mm-hm."

"That's pretty cool, Zimms."

Jack smiles, pleased, and they switch out again. Kent takes some half-assed phone pics while Jack takes his turn, lining up and fiddling and taking a lot more care than Kent had. He's so serious about everything. Maybe that's why Kent had never believed that what they had in the Q had been nothing more important to Jack than friends hooking up. Falling into a rabbit hole where the intensity of everything--hockey, the huge chunks of time spent together, the attention, the _media_ attention--pushed them where they wouldn't otherwise have gone. Nothing between them except the accident of their situation. He doesn't believe it _now_ , watching Jack lift the strap back over his head to drop it over Kent's, one hand carefully cradling the camera, holding it close to his body until it's secure again.

They go skating the next day, in the evening, after Jack's spent the day mostly watching tape so that he's tired and restless at the same time. He does manage to borrow some skates though, so Kent doesn't end up having to buy a pair for one day on a pond. "We don't have to," Kent tells him, while Jack fills a thermos with hot coffee and packs sandwiches like he's planning a picnic. "We can hang out here or go to a movie or something if you're beat."

Jack looks a bit offended. "I'm not _beat_." And then his expression turns sly. "But if you think you'll be too _cold_ \--"

"I'm not cold." It's just dumb one-upmanship. An old reflex, but one of the many things that could escalate to a real fight between them. Kent's tempted to counter-attack, but walks it back instead. "Anyway, we'll warm up fast once we're out there."

Kent can't really go all-out, so he doesn't work up as much heat as he usually would, but Jack loans him the hat with the earflaps and takes a few pictures he threatens to put online. He brings some hockey stuff, but with Kent's knee it never works up to a competition, just easy laps passing a puck back and forth. The ice isn't that even, so Kent's also keeping an eye out in case he busts something tripping over a rock or a stick frozen into the ice. That would go down great with Vegas.

They drink coffee out of the thermos lid, passing it between them while they sit in a snow bank. It gets dark fast at the pond. Kent had imagined it being right by St. Martin's house, but it's actually outside of town, on a bit of land bordered with trees, and just a rough track leading from the road, up to the frozen pond.

Jack pulls him up when he starts shivering again and brushes snow off him so it won't melt all over his car, like he thinks Kent might have forgotten how winter works after living so long in Vegas. Then he goes to start the car and cranks the heat, and when it's warm they both shed their jackets into the back seat and break out the sandwiches, the pond empty and lonely looking in the light of Jack's headlights. It makes Kent nostalgic for some time before the NHL and even before Jack. When it was just him and ice he wasn't supposed to be out on, and the winter sky. He wonders if Jack has the same feeling, because he's chewing thoughtfully as he looks out at the pond.

Kent stays in the car, polishing off sandwiches while Jack gets out and walks around with the camera, trying to capture something even though he's always accused Kent of not letting things go.

They kiss again standing in Jack's kitchen, while Kent is trying to update his media presence under Aces orders. He's about to ask Jack if he thinks _fuck this season_ counts as informative but upbeat if he adds a smiley face, but when he looks up, Jack is right there, his mouth close enough that Kent just has to tilt his head back and straighten up a little as Jack leans forward. He takes Kent's phone out of his hands as he does it and sets it face-down on the table, trapped under his hand. Kent pretends to pry it free, as an excuse to worm his fingers under Jack's. Holding his hand, even though Jack's palm is the wrong way around to hold back. 

Jack smells like snow and winter, but he's warm. Kent probably feels like an ice cube against him, nose and ears still bitten by the cold. When they pull out of the kiss, he buries his face against Jack's neck, free arm snaking around his waist to hold Jack close. 

Jack lets him. Then he turns his hand over, making Kent loosen his grip, but only so Jack can tangle their fingers together. They don't do anything more than that, or talk about that they _are_ doing, but Kent still almost bounces off the plane when he gets back to Vegas, to Jeff's disgust.

"What's with you?" he demands. "Do you not _want_ to play hockey, or something? Didn't you just lose the season?"

"My season," Kent corrects. "Not _the_ season." He grins and thumps Jeff in the shoulder. "You're gonna win _the_ season."

Jeff mutters something under his breath, and even though it sounds sarcastic, he still grabs Kent's bag from the airport cart and carries it for him, shoving Kent away when he tries to take it himself. "This hasn't been a playoff year anyway," he says. It's unclear which one of them he's trying to cheer up, Kent or himself.

"Not with that attitude," Kent says, trailing him outside, where it's cool, but mild. Kent likes Vegas this time of year, but now he's reminded how much he'd missed the drifts of snow that the wind would pile up against his family's house in New York, and Jack's house in Canada.

"So that's how you're going to handle the rest of this season? Pep talks?"

"Maybe. Maybe cheer leading."

Jeff stops to give him a look, eyeing him up and down. "I know someone with a uniform you can borrow," he says. "Just remember to lay off the flips."

Kent grins and doesn't return fire, but gets out his phone to send Jack a text to say he's arrived in one piece. The reply comes in as Jeff's throwing Kent's bag in the back of his sensible-ish car and saying, "Look, Parser. This is called a trunk," the way he always does.

Jack's just sent, _Ok_ , and a little airplane. He's heading out on a roadie, so Kent's not sure which one of them that refers to, but it makes him smile anyway. He sends a string of airplanes back at Jack and then a thumbs up as he gets in the car, feeling for the edge of the door with one hand to avoid bonking his head.

"What?" he asks, when he looks up to catch Jeff looking at him.

"Nothing. You were out there longer than I expected. I kinda thought something might be really wrong." He clicks his seatbelt in place, then starts the engine. "I mean, I know it's not _great_ news, but--"

"Oh," Kent says. "No. I told you, I was going up to--"

"Visit Zimmermann. Yeah." 

Jeff keeps looking at him. Kent's not sure what the problem is, and frowns, trying to work it out, because Jeff seems to be waiting for something. "Not," Kent starts, "Not because I was expecting bad news or anything. Just, you know. We're talking again, and it was that or hang out alone in a hotel room watching TV by myself." Jeff doesn't look appeased, so Kent adds, "We went skating."

"Skating."

" _Careful_ skating," Kent promises, even though it's not like he was going to make the tail end of the season by being extra good. The Aces aren't going to risk playing him again unless by some miracle it means a chance at the playoffs, and even then he's a sounder investment if he's kept off the ice until he's a sure hundred percent.

"Okay," Jeff says, in the way that means he's letting Kent have his way, but has an opinion of his own that he's not willing to put up for discussion.

"It's fine," Kent insists anyway. "I was playing whole games on it before, remember?"

"Yeah." His eyes are on the road, so he completely misses the look Kent gives him. 

"Aw, you missed me," Kent tries. Jeff's brow furrows in annoyance.

"You were worried and you missed me."

"Do you want to walk, Parser?"

Kent slouches in his seat, victorious, and lets Jeff drive in peace for a while, before saying. "It's fine. I'm back, and it's fine, and you're gonna win the Cup."

They don't, not by a long shot, but it's not like anything was going to save their season even if Kent has sort of believed. He doesn't have the right to be too disappointed though, when he hadn't even been on the ice so he sucks it up and thumps the guys on the back and tells them they're amazing, grumbles along with them about the season being garbage from the get-go, and promises that they'll come back strong and take it next time, they're the fucking Aces.

After that, there's not a lot to do but work on his knee, organize summer training, and watch Jack and the Falconers make a better showing in their try for the Cup, even though it goes to the Schooners anyway.

_Their green is the ugliest_ , Kent sends, _if it helps. Even when they win, they look like shit_. It won't help, Kent knows, having lost a playoff or two himself, but Jack might at least enjoy the pettiness as a show of solidarity.

_If they shoot them in black and white_ , Jack sends back, long enough after the fact that Kent's sure he's just been sleeping and moping, _they'll look fine_. 

It's petulant, and that makes Kent laugh even though he's just woken up, sleepily checking his messages in bed. "Yeah, but who does that?" he says out loud, for Kit's benefit. He sends Jack, _Nobody does that_. 

Other than Jack, because in response he sends artsy photos he's taken of his team. Behind the scenes shots of them packing gear or taping sticks. Goofing on the ice after practice. 

_Other than you_ , Kent adds. Then adds again, _These are nice_ , in case the first thing made him sound like an asshole. He means it too, even if that doesn't go far in the world of informed photography opinions.

_Lots of people do_ , Jack sends, with no emoji to clarify his tone but Kent reads it in the amused, faintly exasperated one from back in the Q, when Kent failed to retain any of the history information Jack was always talking about. Not on purpose or out of indifference, but just because it didn't stick, and then Jack would have to explain everything over if he wanted to bring it up again.

Kent grins at his phone. _I'll bet you ten bucks they look like crap_ , he tells Jack.

_You're a professional hockey player and the best you can do is ten dollars?_

_Fine. Then I bet you a trip to Vegas._

Kent hits send, then just holds his phone in front of his face, waiting until it's pretty clear that Jack isn't just taking a minute to think up an answer. "Don't judge me," he tells Kit, when she comes over to climb onto his stomach, one surprisingly heavy foot at a time, placing each carefully before adding the next, and then meticulously settling in. "I'm not awake yet. I wrote that in my sleep."

Sports Illustrated runs their Schooners cover in a filter that shifts everything towards orange, dulling the green of their uniforms and making the image look nostalgic and timeless, with _The Schooners' quest for the Cup_ in a bottom corner, the only thing that's actually in their team colors. They look fantastic and Kent hates them with bright, fresh loathing that he takes out on Jeff, for buying the magazine in the first place.

"If this was the rink, having this would be a fineable offense," Kent yells across Jeff's apartment, when he finds it there, left blatantly out in the open. "Who buys winning covers of other teams?"

"Good thing it's not, you tyrant," Jeff calls, then comes back from whatever the hell he'd been doing. "And _I_ do. And you come here to hate read them, don't pretend I don't know that's why you're here. You read the Providence one like sixty times."

"I read it twice," Kent lies, opening the magazine to see if the Schooners look worse on the inside pages. "You better hope we don't have a bad season because of this."

Jeff doesn't look bothered. "If we do, maybe it's because our captain can't keep his hands off it. How many times did you read last year's?"

"Shit." Kent tosses the magazine, to glare at it where it falls face-up on the coffee table. "That's a good point."

Jeff sighs. Kent asks, "Read me the worst parts?"

"They're Cup winners. There aren't worst parts, it's all positive. Unless that's what you meant?"

"That's what I meant."

"Still no, Parser."

Kent glares at the magazine, then gets out his phone when Jeff's back is turned to take a picture and send it to Jack. _We're both wrong. Now what?_

"Fuck the Schooners," he tells Jeff, so he'll have to put his phone away while he waits to see if Jack answers. "They can't even be shitty right."

"I like the Cup issue," Jeff says. "I _like_ that it's all nice. Why do you have to be like this, Parser?"

"You think the Cup issue blew out my knee, and you like that it's _nice_?"

"Okay. Fine. I can see that I've started a thing."

" _Or_ you've saved us from bad luck I wasn't even on the lookout for."

Jeff picks up the magazine and takes it to shove away, into a shelf on top of the row of books already lined up there. "You better be fucking with me, man. If you're doing this for real, I swear to god--"

Kent drops it to demand, again, "Why are you buying magazines of winning teams that aren't us?"

"You know I was rooting for Providence to win," Jeff says, because he thinks that's a jab. "I knew you were going to be dramatic about the Schooners."

"You're supposed to root for Providence because _we hate_ the Schooners."

"Fine. Fuck the Schooners. I apologize for spending my money like an adult in a free country. How do you want guys with subscriptions to handle this, by the way?"

Kent hadn't considered that angle, but he's saved by his phone buzzing in his pocket _I'm more right than you_ , Jack sends. _So maybe I could just come out there? On my own, I mean. You don't have to pony up._

He sends a thumbs up and _Okay_ , back, because Jeff is standing there frowning at him, then decides not to give a fuck and adds, _But only because I'm still kind of right. They don't even look that good. Just less green than I thought._

"Hello? Parser?" Jeff's hand waves between his face and the phone screen. "Your fan active into the off-season?" 

"You bought a magazine of a winning team that wasn't us, and you let me _touch it_ ," Kent accuses, backing out of the chat window.

"You just decided that last part today," Swoops points out. "Why do you have a picture of Mashkov on your phone?"

"I was supporting Providence," Kent says, still tapping at his screen. "Remember? Because we hate the Schooners. How the hell did I end up in photos? Is this how Scraps keeps sending me shit?"

Jeff ignores the whole thing to ask, "Zimmermann?"

Kent makes sure to close all his open apps before shoving the phone back into his pocket. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to show those to anyone, so don't say anything when he comes, okay?"

"It was an accident."

"I already used that one."

Jeff looks at him, face serious now, then he shrugs and says, "Okay. So I looked over your shoulder."

"You're not going to ask?" About Jack visiting, since Jeff had had first row seats to some of the fighting, and especially to Kent's reactions in the wake of the fighting. 

"No," Jeff says, then admits, almost grudging, "I wasn't really supporting the Falconers. Sorry, Parser."

"I'll only accept that," Kent says, "if you were backing the Schooners out of conference loyalty."


End file.
